Designer Knockoff (9 page)

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Authors: Ellen Byerrum

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Designer Knockoff
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“She certainly thought so.” Tyler sniffed. “Look, she was working it the right way. I admire that.”
“You weren’t friends?”
“We weren’t. I don’t want to sound mean, and please don’t quote me, but quite frankly, she couldn’t keep up with the rest of us. Even though she wanted to. Okay, we’re, like, totally privileged, we know that, but we work hard. So when Congress is out of session, we want to do something cool, like do the Hamptons for the weekend, or Key West, or go skiing in Aspen. But Esme could never go. If she could manage to scrounge up a plane ticket, then she didn’t have skis, or an outfit, or the price of the lift ticket. She had this attitude going like she was Little Orphan Esme and we were supposed to be her big sisters or Mommy Warbucks or something. She wasn’t our charity project. I mean, you just can’t carry someone forever. She was an okay roommate. But we hadn’t really talked recently.” Lacey could hear someone in the background, and Tyler muffled the receiver for a moment. “Look, I really have to go.”
The conversation with Tyler Stone and her sense of entitlement gave Lacey a headache, as well as some more sympathy for Esme. She was rummaging in her bag for some Advil when the courier arrived with the packet from Nancy Mifflin, who turned out to be surprisingly helpful and organized. No doubt Tyler Stone would think Nancy was one of the boring staffers who had to budget. The envelope’s three eight-by-ten photos of Esme Fairchild were designed to give the viewer a full-bore blast of budding cover-girl beauty. Looking through them, Lacey could tell that whatever additional cash the missing intern may have been able to put together had gone into her portfolio. They looked expensive. And the photos reminded Lacey of something. They had the same look and flavor as the latest Bentley advertising campaigns in
Vogue
and
Elle.
Not a coincidence, she assumed.
There was Esme with her honey hair burnished by the sun as she stared intently into the camera. She wore a black wool Bentley jacket, an unbuttoned white tuxedo shirt showing off her almost imaginary cleavage, and a gold-beaded choker. Her lips were slightly parted, not quite a smile.
Is it a look of seduction or arrogance?
Lacey wondered. Another shot had Esme wearing a jean jacket on a windswept beach, no blouse, the jacket, presumably a Bentley, secured tenuously by one button.
The first two felt deliberately staged, but the third managed to look both natural and glamorous. In it, Esme was the golden girl in the sunset, her glorious hair backlit. She was dressed in a buttery suede skirt and jacket, which she teamed with a soft pink-and-gold patchwork satin bustier. Suede boots completed the picture, all Bentley, no doubt. This time a real smile beguiled the viewer. This was a shot that might make a Bentley’s executive reach for the phone. Esme glowed, and she made Bentley’s suede glow with her. And she was younger and fresher than Bentley’s current spokesmodel, Cordelia, who, though only twenty-eight, was living the hard life of a hard-partying celebrity, and it showed in the dark circles under her eyes.
“What you got there, Smithsonian?” It was Mac, the stealth editor.
She held up the photos. “Meet Ms. Esme Fairchild, missing intern du jour. This one is my favorite.” She indicated the golden-girl shot.
He snatched them away with interest. “She’s awfully young for something like this to happen. What a waste.”
“We don’t know she’s dead yet.” Every time Lacey said that it sounded more hollow.
Mac shrugged. “Not yet.” He lifted the golden-girl photo up to the light. “This one. Definitely above the fold. How did you get ahold of these?”
“I have my secret methods.”
Luck, sheer luck.
“There’s not that much personal information that I can cadge, except that she was trying to look like old money on a moderate-money budget. All anyone really knows is that she wants to be a Bentley model. She made like the Sphinx with her housemates.”
“Give me what you got. Looks like you got that fashion angle nailed. It’s a gift, Smithsonian. Accept it.”
“You know we don’t cover real fashion here. How come you never send me to New York? Or Paris for Fashion Week? I’ve never even been to Paris.”
He smirked at her as he collected the photos. “Now why would you want to be one of the pack when you can blaze your own trail? Smithsonian, you puzzle me.”
“I’m out of the fashion loop here, Mac. I don’t even know all the designers or the newest trends in New York or the buzz in Paris or Milan or—”
“Why should you? You cover Washington. Besides, it might ruin that special gift you got. That special hot, buttered scorn you’ve perfected. And once in a while, a soft spot for the underdog, which we approve of here at
The Eye.
By the way, when are we finally going to put your photo at the top of your column? This would be a good time. You know, a simple news shot.”
Yeah, preferably with my eyes crossed. News shot, yuck.
“Never, Mac. Never. That’s when.” Mac chuckled and lumbered back to his office.
No doubt congratulating himself on choosing me for this thankless job.
Lacey wrote up what she had so far and forwarded it to Trujillo.
Too bad I didn’t find out who Esme is dating. Maybe I’ll get a call back from someone in her crowd.
Lacey was about to congratulate herself on finishing up early when Felicity’s toxic perfume once again invaded the airspace. This was odd, as Felicity normally preferred to torture Lacey with the aroma of freshly baked goodies packed with fats, sugar, and calories. Lacey sniffed the air. There was no food in the nearby environment.
Did Felicity break both arms?
“Hi, Felicity, you didn’t happen to see anyone messing with my stuff, did you?”
Felicity shook her head and turned away. “I’ve been busy.”
“Cooking something up?”
Felicity looked peevish. “I’m on a diet. I don’t want to talk about it. And there will be no more temptation around here. Don’t even ask for a brownie; I’m not kidding.” She snapped a carrot stick in half and bit into it. She crunched unhappily.
Lacey peeked around Felicity into the ample food editor’s cubicle. Instead of the usual platters of artery-choking goodies, Felicity’s desk was overrun with rabbit food, chopped vegetable heaven, a blizzard of plastic Baggies full of green and orange.
“You have my sympathy.” Lacey looked up: Mac was heading her way again, looking way too pleased with himself. She was about to run for cover and a cup of coffee when her phone rang. It was Miguel Flores.
“Lacey, we have to talk. The Bentleys fired me!”
“Miguel, that’s terrible! How did it happen? When?”
“First things first. Want to go shopping?”
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
Shopping Under the Influence
We’ve all done it. Gone shopping under the influence, that is. Guilty, guilty, guilty, Your Honor. And I don’t mean drugs or alcohol, which can lead to risky behaviors other than shopping. You may think you’ve won your black belt in bargain hunting, but even expert shoppers can be sabotaged by temptation. Do these sound familiar?
•
Chocolate
. Endorphin mood enhancers like chocolate deaden the pain of a long day and make you susceptible to temptations you might ordinarily shrug off. Outlandishly expensive shoes? No sale. Expensive shoes plus chocolate? Charge ‘em!
•
Bargains.
Oh yeah, we’ve all been there. That five-hundred-dollar suit that’s been marked down to seventy dollars? A bargain-in an unwearable neon Jello-mold color. It has ruffles-and you’re not a ruffles person. It starred in a bad 1980s sitcom. Don’t give it a rerun. Repeat: It’s not a bargain if I’m never going to wear it. It’s not a bargain....
•
Friends
. Can’t shop with ’em, can’t shop without ’em. But beware of competitive shopping with a friend who has deeper pockets—and double-dares you to go toe to toe with her. And then there is the more insidious temptation, sympathetic shopping. She’s blue and you just want to cheer her up. So the two of you buy and buy and buy ... till your budget’s in the red. Uh-oh. Who’s blue now?
•
Sexy sizes
. So maybe it runs large, but just because it says it’s a four or a six or an eight, that doesn’t mean it fits. You can zip it, but can you breathe? You can squeeze into it, but how soon will you pop out of it? You can walk in those dainty heels in the shoe store, but can you walk outside for even five minutes? Don’t shop by the numbers-unless all you want to wear is the size tag.
•
Fantasies.
Perhaps the most dangerous trap of all. You walk past a slinky white dress and it whispers to you, “Barcelona.” You turn and look and the little temptress dares you to buy her—and fly off to Spain. The fantasy dress has a tenacious hold all its own, because the dream of Barcelona has lingered in your subconscious for years and somehow has manifested itself in front of you in living, breathing Lycra. You can only hope that the price tag jerks you back to reality. (Unless you’re ready to turn fantasy into reality. See you at the bullfights!)
Just remember, stylish reader, you’re the one who’s going to wear those clothes. Or not. You deserve to be clearheaded about it. Don’t shop under the influence. You’ll respect yourself in the morning.
chapter 6
With Miguel on one side and Stella on the other, Lacey felt cornered. Ambushed. Shanghaied. Her instinct was to get away by herself to contemplate what to wear to the grand fashion museum gala. Out of the clear blue, Mac had gleefully given her the go-ahead to cover it; in fact it was a mandate. Apparently Claudia Darnell,
The Eye’s
publisher and a legendary fashion plate herself, found the whole idea irresistible. The paper was not only buying Lacey a ticket; they were buying a table for staff so she didn’t have to muscle her way into the press table. Claudia promised to be there too, even if it meant flying back from Paris a little early—and Claudia was still mourning the demise of her beloved transatlantic Concorde.
That meant Lacey needed something spectacular to follow up her vintage Bentley suit, but she didn’t have a vintage evening dress, much less a spectacular vintage evening dress. She dreaded ending up in something safe, boring, and black, rendering her totally invisible. Every upscale event she attended in D.C. resembled a funeral directors’ convention, a sea of black; black tie, black tuxedos, black dresses, black limos.
You’re a reporter. No one cares what you wear,
she told herself. But she still didn’t want to wear the black-evening-dress uniform. And as Stella said, “Of course, it’s all about you—if you look like it’s all about you.”
This was where Miguel and Stella came in. Apparently Miguel’s idea of talking out a deeply personal crisis was to go shopping. And Stella found retail therapy a perfectly reasonable solution to any problem. Besides, Stella had a project: Lacey’s new look for the gala. Lacey felt she needed time to contemplate, to imagine a look, to wander through some of Mimi’s patterns, maybe fondle some material in a quiet fabric store. Instead, she was being marched to the chichi shops on upper Wisconsin Avenue in Chevy Chase with Stella and Miguel on either side to go shopping for—shoes.
Shoes? I don’t even have a dress yet. Shoes are the last thing I need!
There was no time for dinner, but she had managed to grab a handful of Hershey’s Kisses off Trujillo’s desk on her way over from
The Eye.
He had laid in a supply during Felicity’s diet.
“Honestly, Lacey, you have the most boring shoes,” Stella, her friend, hairstylist, and footwear consultant, announced loudly.
“My shoes are boring because I like to use my feet. I walk on them.” They were in the appallingly expensive shoe store known as Scarpabellas, which Lacey had never before even dared to enter.
“You haven’t been there yet?” Miguel had said. “Then that’s our secret destination. It’s so exclusive that people who don’t need to know don’t even know it exists.”
The oh-so-exclusive store was snuggled between two town houses and had the air of a private club. The carved oak door bore a simple brass plaque:
Scarpabellas. Beautiful Shoes.
The door opened at Miguel’s knock.
“Buenos días, amigo,
” he said to the gamine-faced redhaired salesman.

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